My Way Is the Highway

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, my buddy Ernie and the guys are stopping by any minute to retrieve my sorry ass and haul it Up North to Hayward—“Gateway to the Town of Barnes,” where there’s an abundance of free parking ’cause there’s not a goddamn thing to do there, what the fock.

So my time is tight on this page, but I do want to thank the Democrats for choosing to have their big honking convention pow-wow in Our Town next summer, so that I can be nominated for president right here in my own hometown. That’s very thoughtful, and I do appreciate it. Cripes, I can walk down to the Fiserv, accept the nomination, speechify a bit, head over to the Uptowner tavern/charm school to have a couple, three, then get home and sleep in my own bed focking free of charge. That’s what I call a full day, I kid you not.

Now, about Trumple-thinskin’s jewel of a July 4 speech and how our Revolutionary War army took over the airports to help us turn the tide, I’m reminded of the words of the late, great philosopher and sage, George Gobel: “If it weren’t for electricity, we’d all be watching television by candlelight.” So true, ain’a?

It’s too bad the Orange Man’s teleprompter apparently went kaput at some point, because I was waiting for him to talk about when George Washington telephoned President Ben Franklin to see if he could enlist the aid of some of the dinosaurs known to frequent the area to help stomp the British bastards into submission.

Oops! I hear Ernie honking the horn, which means I’ve got to go, but I’ll leave you with a little summertime story:

So this priest, a doctor and a lawyer by the name of William Barr are out trying to enjoy a nice round of golf at the club, but the groups in front of them are really, really slow. The priest, doctor and the lawyer by the name of William Barr get to the second hole and they’ve got to wait 20 minutes to tee off. Third hole, they’re waiting another 20 minutes. Fourth hole, same thing. Fifth hole, the wait is up to a half-hour and now they’re getting good and ticked off and begin to shout all kinds of insults toward the group in front of them—some of which couldn’t be printed in a goddamn family focking newspaper, I kid you not.

This goes on for another couple, three holes—slow play, insults, slow play, heated invective—until the course marshal approaches the priest, doctor and the lawyer by the name of William Barr and says, “I’m sorry gentlemen, if I neglected to tell you, but I ask you for a little patience since today we have an outing for blind golfers.”

Right there and then, the priest drops to his knees and commences to bewail how badly he feels for getting so angry, how one of his parishioners is blind and has the sweetest biggest heart in the world, how this blind guy always volunteers for the church’s annual cook-out for orphans.

Then the doctor chimes in with how he has a blind uncle who helped support him through medical school and so must go apologize at once to the group in front of them for his rude behavior.

And the lawyer by the name of William Barr says, “You got to be jerking my beefaroni. They’re blind!??! What the fock, they could’ve played last night.”

Ba-ding! And au revoir, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.